Soon, there will be layers of white wool covering the hills and filling the valleys of the Keweenaw. The sharp angles of the land and the complex tangle of the forest will soften, perhaps even disappear under a deep blanket of silent white. Winter's bite is sharp and her teeth are long and cold. Her touch can be death to those who walk warm in the sun - a frightening thought for all save those who know that the little death of winter is the wellspring of summer's riot of life.
The soft, white secret of snow's place in the passionate cycle of life is a silent shadow in the dark thoughts of those who live in warmer climes. A poet's soul, touched by the cold fingers of winter's white hand, instinctively senses the secret garden of life, sleeping under the season's silent white blanket...
The Secret of Snow
A northern winter's a season of death,
For those blinded by an unseeing heart;
Feeling only the north wind's icy breath,
As the warm colors of Autumn depart.
Gray clouds scud past when November winds blow,
Gathering moisture when crossing the lake;
Carrying water of life, and below -
Leaving white petals afloat in their wake.
Soft falling snow has a silent power,
Whispering white of the seeds of green spring.
It accumulates hour by quiet hour,
Wherein distant echoes of summer sing;
In a private place only poets know -
A secret garden of life in the snow.